


Wake Me If You're Out There

by StarlightAndFireflies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Believe in Sherlock Holmes, Loneliness, One Shot, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Written before series three aired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-23 01:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach. John is haunted by the Fall, but when he starts to notice a strange something, he might find hope. One shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wake Me If You're Out There

**Author's Note:**

> So this is one of the few times you'll ever see me using first-person POV, huzzah. I wrote this quite a long time before The Empty Hearse aired, so there are obviously non-canon elements to it.  
> Additionally, this story is inspired by an Owl City song called Angels. It's a truly lovely song, and there's one lyric especially that informed the mood and title of my work. If you'd care to, please give it a listen.  
> I own neither Sherlock Holmes nor Angels. Owl City, BBC, etc do, and no copyright infringement was intended.

I sighed and gazed out the window of my bedroom, watching the bustling London life go by far below. Parents with their children, couples hand in hand, tourists clutching cameras and maps, people on their way to work. I could remember when I was a part of all that, carefree, when the only thing to worry about was work and bills and what movie to watch at night. My life after the war.

And then Sherlock had happened, and my life was turned upside down, again. But instead of roadside bombs and hot sand, it all became about the chase, the riddle, the gunshots and the Chinese food. I had longed for adrenaline, ever since the war, but Sherlock gave me more than that. He had given me a purpose, when I had thought I'd never find one again.

And it had been wonderful, exhilarating, for eighteen crazy months. But then Moriarty, the kidnapping, and then the rooftop stopped life in its tracks again. I still dreamed of Afghanistan, but now Sherlock was there too, pale face covered in shockingly scarlet blood, laying on the ground where he never should have been, as the explosions and terrified shouts of my nightmare war reverberated around them.

I sighed, shaking myself out of the gloomy memories. Thinking of Sherlock wouldn't bring the lost detective back to life.

A flash of dark coat, nearly a shadow, caught my eye from the street below me. A billowing piece of black fabric, a silhouette there for an instant then gone just as quickly.

I frowned. The look of that image had felt so familiar, rather like home. Yet at the same time, I was unsure if I had even seen it at all...

 

* * *

 

Later that day, I decided to go visit Mrs. Hudson. Since I had moved out of Baker Street, I rarely saw her anymore. I knew it hadn't been fair to her to basically abandon the place; I just couldn't bear to be around Sherlock's home any longer after the Fall. So I had moved out without warning, leaving the dear sweet landlady to face her now-empty upstairs flat alone.

She was delighted to see me, gushing over how glad she was I was there. But what we both avoided saying was why I wasn't around anymore. His name was like a taboo, and if either of us said it, our shields would crack and we would break inside. So the name hovered in the silence, just out of reach.

She made me tea in that silence, until I broke it, striking up a mundane conversation with her about the weather, and work, anything not about our missing friend. She jumped at the chance to talk like nothing was wrong, and I found myself almost having a good time.

After that, I impulsively decided to go upstairs. Just to see if I could. For the longest time after the Fall, I couldn't bring myself to go there, to see his things, the signs that he once was there and vibrant and alive.

I headed up the stairs, each of the seventeen like an obstacle that I was glad I overcame. I reached the landing and stared into the room, seeing the skull watching me. Deep breath. Two steps forward, and I was inside.

It still felt like home, was that ridiculous? The wallpaper, skull, our two chairs, everything, felt like they were welcoming me back, just by their presence. But a thin layer of dust covered everything, and I understood that Mrs. Hudson hadn't been able to bring herself to clean up here. I'd have to arrange for someone to come clean for her. Maybe Mycroft would send someone.

I looked around, not touching anything, not looking to reinstate myself in this abandoned flat, just taking it all in. That was when I heard a soft sound, like a floorboard creaking faintly. But I was not moving, so it couldn't have been me. I looked around, suddenly feeling as if I was being watched. The hairs on my neck standing up, I headed down the stairs again, feeling haunted.

And as I got back downstairs and started to leave, I glanced back, and it was almost like someone was there on those stairs, watching me leave, perhaps following partway down. Almost a silhouette, almost a shadow. But that was impossible, no one was up there.

And I didn't believe in ghosts.

 

* * *

 

It kept happening. I kept feeling like someone was with me. Virtually everywhere I went, I felt like someone is there. It was never an actual solid fact, but a sensation that someone is nearby, or in the air.

But that was absurd. I didn't believe in ghosts.

One night, I went to the roof of my building. I didn't know what possessed me to do this, because ever since Bart's, I hated rooftops. But that night was one of those nights I needed to be alone. And the stars, for some reason, helped me think. I still couldn't believe Sherlock hadn't known anything about them.

_"Beautiful, isn't it?"_

_"I thought you didn't care about-"_

_"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it."_

It had been the one of few instances of his aesthetic tendencies, and I cherished that memory above almost all the others. The rest of what I had gotten to see of him was sternly scientific, adrenaline-filled madness, but no day-dreamy stargazing. Except that one time, when it was like we shared the same opinion of the stars.

I laid back on that rooftop, for once letting the memories of past, beloved life wash over me. And to my amazement, it was starting to hurt less to remember. If I didn't think of how it ended, it was bearable. I was glad, because I wanted to be able to remember Sherlock. Because I still believed in him.

But I didn't believe in ghosts.

The thought came suddenly, among all the memories and laughter and rush of my past. Ghosts weren't real, but I was starting to wonder if I was somehow haunted by one. Every time I saw a flicker, a subtle movement in the corner of my eye, I thought it was my ghost. Even if the movement was imagined, which most of the time it was.

I laid up there for hours, my mind full of jokes and stolen ashtrays and arguments and ghosts and crap telly in the middle of the night and Sherlock's sarcasm and all the madness among the mundane that I couldn't live without. The madness I was without now, left with just the mundane. Finally, when the wind grew searingly chill and my back stiff, I got up and went back inside. I was the only flat with rooftop access, probably a bad decision on my part. At least at first, when I didn't know if I wanted to continue living. Who knew what could have happened?

Back downstairs, in the warm, a cup of tea in my hand, I was wide awake still. It was just going to be one of those nights again, and I felt glad I didn't have work tomorrow. But I still thought it might be a good idea to at least attempt to get some sleep. Just in case Lestrade dropped by "because he was in the neighborhood" or whatever his excuse would be. I climbed into bed and rolled onto my side, staring out the window.

The night was full of soft sounds, the building settling or the late night traffic, but I imagined it was my ghost. The only light was my window, the small light in the hallway (I refused to call it a nightlight; that sounded childish) was unplugged and needed a new bulb. But mainly I didn't want to be distanced from the dark of the night.

Somehow, though it was absurd to think it, that was when Sherlock felt the most alive to me.

 

* * *

 

Everyday life in London was probably exciting to a tourist or a newcomer, but to me, it had lost all vibrancy. I saw nothing new anymore. It was dull and colorless.

But one day, I took a different route home from work. Along the way, I passed a wall of graffiti. Not unusual, of course, this was London. But one piece in particular caught my eye.

 _Believe_. That was all it said. But the color, a bright yellow, instantly transported me back. The bank, the Black Lotus, all of it, flashed in front of my eyes. It was the same color, it had to be.  
I would have brushed it off as a coincidence, but after the single word was a smiley face. Just like the one at Baker Street. I didn't know how it was possible, but it was there. And I knew the message was for me.

Abruptly, it was there again. My ghost. Like it was in that alley with me. But that wasn't possible. He, it, wasn't real.

I shook my head slightly, as if to unburden myself of these ridiculous thoughts of the past and impossible, and turned to leave. Once I got home, the ghost's presence had disappeared again. But the graffiti image stayed with me, imprinted on my eyelids so that was all I saw when I blinked.

Believe.

I didn't believe in ghosts.

 

* * *

 

It wouldn't leave me alone, this ghost. It was very persistent, but luckily, only an occasional presence. Every time it appeared, though, I got a rush of adrenaline. Like when Sherlock was around. When he had been alive, it had always been a subconscious state of awareness. I knew when I was near him that something was bound to happen sooner or later. I got that same sense with the ghost, though before I'd assumed Sherlock was the only who made me feel that.  
But that was stupid. The ghost wasn't real. I didn't believe in it.

Things started to change one day, on the way to the store. Posters campaigning something had been put up, black and white and yellow. I passed one stuck to a telephone booth and stopped short when I recognized the figure printed on it.

I Believe in Sherlock Holmes.

His figure, though not his face. A yellow stripe, Blind Baker style, blocked out his eyes. But the message was there all the same. Someone other than me believed.

There was the ghost again. It felt more real than ever, and I turned around, half-expecting to finally see it standing there. But the street was empty, the only movement a flicker in an alleyway. My alleyway, with the yellow graffiti.

What was going on here?

 

* * *

 

I was beginning to think that I was going mad. No one else I talked to seemed to have noticed the posters, or had a strange feeling of being watched. I didn't dare mention this to my therapist, knowing what she would say. But how was I the only one who noticed this?

Maybe my ghost was him. It was the first time I let myself think it, but it felt right. Maybe it was him. And I believed in him.

So did that mean I believed in ghosts?

I was back on the street, with the posters and the graffiti. Trying to decide if I was mad or not. Perhaps I was; after all, I was standing on a dark street in London in the middle of the night, reading posters and looking at the stars.

"Sherlock, my ghost," I whispered, barely aware of doing so. "I feel like I'm sleepwalking. Wake me if you're out there..."

And before I could get any madder, I balled my hands into fists and headed home, always feeling my ghost, trailing after me like I once trailed after Sherlock.

Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't a ghost. Because whatever Sherlock had said, whatever he had thought, he was on the side of the angels. Maybe he was even one of them now.

Maybe that ghost was an angel.

Or a ghost on their side, at least.

 

* * *

 

I watched John enter his flat. I had been watching him to weeks, too cautious to reveal myself but too desperate to see him to stay away. He was coping, which I was glad for. And hopefully I could go home soon, show myself to him as more than the fleeting glimpse I thought he sometimes caught. I sometimes watched him on the CCTVs as well, thanks to my brother. What was ridiculous though was sometimes it seemed as if John sensed it. He would look around in confusion, like he felt spied on.

How would he know I was there? It was a question that nagged me, to which I had no solution. It was annoying.

I had heard what he whispered tonight, close enough to hear his voice but hidden well enough to remain unnoticed.

"Wake me if you're out there..."

Soon, John. But for the time being, your ghost, your angel (what a ridiculous sentiment) would be watching you.

But for that night, I laid back on a park bench across from his flat and watched the stars, trying to see, to truly understand, what John saw in them.

I'll be home soon.

  
FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this. I hope you enjoyed it. Leave a comment if you'd like. ~ SAF


End file.
